


Too Close For Comfort or How Warfare Became Child's Play

by katrinawritesstuff



Series: Hayffie-Centric AUs [3]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Adult Themes, Hayffie, Mentions of Violence, Multi, Sexual References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinawritesstuff/pseuds/katrinawritesstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Capitol girl finds her fragile sensibilities disturbed by a former District girl's fondness for bloodsport. A coming of age story for Effie, of sorts. Features Effie, Portia, Enobaria and (in later chapters) Haymitch. Maybe a bit too different; this wouldn't be to everyone's liking. First chapter. TW for discussions of gun violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Close For Comfort or How Warfare Became Child's Play

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And now for something completely different!
> 
> This is a story that will be told in four or five parts: The Distant Past I & II and The Recent Past, which are set pre-series, and The Present, which is set during book 1. I may or may not add a fifth ('Some Future Time', post-Mockingjay) if I get enough ideas or if it strikes my fancy.
> 
> The whole story is essentially a coming-of-age one for Effie, which deals with her journey from oblivious Capitol girl to some glimmer of adult awareness-specifically, awareness of the awfulness of the Games and her complicity through inaction. Also, a bit of Hayffie in later chapters for those who like it!
> 
> Apologies for the pointless reveal (you'll see what I'm talking about later).
> 
> Summary: Two Capitol girls have their fragile sensibilities disturbed by a former District girl's enthusiasm for bloodsport.

_The distant past 1_

The arenas were primitive in those days: Gladiatorial colosseums curving around a single enormous glass dome in the centre. Sitting at a safe remove in these bowl-like bleachers, row upon row of powder-faced Capitol audiences would watch the tiny teenagers in the dome below them die for their amusement, ants beneath their child’s magnifying glass; birds tumbling from trees after being struck with stones from their slingshots. Some faces were alight with joy; others darkened by anxiety; still others were entirely inscrutable. Some of this inscrutability was no doubt attributable to a copious amount of Botulin injections, which Capitol citizens typically received from the age of fourteen onwards. But wrinkle-congealing toxins don’t freeze hearts; and indeed, for every four or five children who extinguish the lives of lesser creatures without so much as a second thought, there is one who lingers tentatively after the blood has been spilled, who looks at the senselessness and the brutality and the lifeless body lying on the ground before them, and asks themselves, “Why?” 

*

_“Magnificent,_ isn’t it?” Davahlia sighed as she used the remote control to adjust the focus on her sister’s contact lenses, allowing the teenager a better glimpse of the majestic woodland arena. The Games would be so much better this year now that they’d brought in Ultra-Vision, she thought. Ultra-Vision were a remote-operated contact lens/camera hybrid that allowed even spectators on the bowl’s rim to witness the action up close, every twig and every redwood leaf, every severed limb and every glistening bone protrusion. Manufactured by Nike (with the slogan, _“Ultra-clarity. Ultra-focus. Ultra-exciting. Ultra-Vision: the ultimate Games-viewing experience”_ ) and previously reserved strictly for high-ranking Capitol officials, this was the first year these recordable-function contact lenses had been made available to the general public. Of course, Davahlia had purchased a couple of pairs the minute they went on sale. Not that the girls needed any, what with their front-row seats and all. It was her sister’s thirteenth birthday, and Davahlia wanted her first time as a Hunger Games spectator to be a special one. 

“It’s pretty cool.” The little elf seemed excited, although like most teenagers she was trying to bury it beneath a facade of too-cool-for-this aloofness. “It’s so _clear,_ isn’t it? Probably not a patch on its competitor, though. My friend Cassidy says her i-Saw is _in-credible.”_  


“Her what?”

“I-saw. Apple’s rival brand.” 

“Oh.” Davahlia bristled somewhat. She knew her sister wasn’t deliberately being an ingrate, but teenagers had a way of doing that, of greeting Herculean efforts and heartfelt gestures with flippant shoulder shrugs in a way that could rile less patient types. Davahlia wasn’t especially patient, but it was her sister’s big day; she would need to greet these small irritations with more equanimity than usual. And so, calmly, she asked, “Well, Little Elf, how are you enjoying your first Games so far? Pretty neat, huh?”

Her sister used the remote’s wide-angle function to zoom back to normal, then turned her head and met Davahlia’s gaze for the first time. “Yeah,” she said sincerely, the corners of her mouth lifting upwards into a grateful smile. “You know, Davey, I may not always show it, but I am thankful for all the stuff you do for me. Including taking me to the Games’ early evening session—the fireworks display is going to be amazing! Thank you so much. And you should be so proud of yourself; I know this is a special day for you as well.” She gave her older sister a meaningful look. 

Davahlia swelled with emotion. Teenage siblings; sometimes they really could surprise you. And her sister was right: this was a special day for her, too—Davahlia’s first Hunger Games as an escort to the child tributes. Moreover, at twenty-one years of age, Davahlia was the youngest escort in Games history (twenty-one was the cut-off age, but the average age for most escorts was twenty-eight or older. Most twenty-one-year-olds lacked the maturity and psychological fortitude necessary to prepare young people for the gruelling challenges—and hopefully, boundless glory!—that lay ahead of them. That she of all people had been selected for this job was both terrifying and exhilarating; Davahlia now knew how the first thirty-five-year-old President of Panem must’ve felt after being sworn into office).

Davahlia excitedly wrapped her arms around her sister’s skinny shoulders and squeezed her tightly. “I know! And I’m so thrilled you’re here to share it with me, Little Elf! Obviously, it’s not as important as _your birthday_ , but, well—it’s pretty damn close! Ha ha.” Though the elder sibling by eight whole years, Davahlia was the giddier, more easily-excitable of the two, and she often joked good-naturedly about her immaturity and self-centredness. Of course, she wasn’t _always_ immature—she never could’ve been the youngest escort in Games history if she didn’t possess a grown-up side and a willingness to work her ass off—but it required more diligence on her part than it did on her sister’s, whose wise-beyond-her-years poses seemed almost effortless. But then, Little Elf probably was wise beyond her years, which was good in some ways but maddening in others. Although graceful in most social situations, she had a way of pointing out flaws (in objects and sometimes even in people) with all the grace and subtlety of a sledgehammer. The previous year when their family had been dining with some very prestigious Capitol officials, her sister had tartly remarked to the man sitting next to her at the table, “It was _ridiculous_ how one of the tributes was able to escape the Arena and run into the Game-maker room underneath the bleachers. There was nothing separating that boy from the exit but a bit of _dry-wall!_ I mean, I know there’s supposed to be a force-field and such, but if it malfunctions wouldn’t you want the barrier behind it to be made of something like, I don’t know, _bricks?_ That Head Game-maker is so stupid. Zeus’ beard, even _I_ could’ve done a more competent job!” That she was currently conversing with said Game-maker seemed to have escaped her notice. 

Nonetheless; the girl had an eye for details. Davahlia remembered when she and her sister had been watching the Games together in their living-room a couple of years ago, and the then eleven-year-old elf had pointed out literally every visible patch of force-field in the whole fucking Arena. Davahlia had been amazed; most of what her sister had seen was barely perceptible to the naked human eye unless you got right up close to the set and squinted. But the elf had pointed this out in such a superior, isn’t-it-obvious tone that Davahlia couldn’t resist churlishly muttering, “Well, _no,_ actually, I _didn’t_ notice that; I’m more interested in paying attention to stuff that’s actually important. Like the tributes.” Her sister, lying on the floor on her stomach with her small chin resting in her cupped hands, twisted her head around and regarded Davahlia disdainfully over one shoulder. “Really? I’m not.” 

“See? There! You can see a glimmer of force-field at the top of that redwood. If the Game-makers set a fire, this place will blaze out of control _far_ too easily.” There she was, at it again, pointing out flaws. Davahlia gave her sister an irritated look. “You know, those contact lenses weren’t designed so you could play critic.” 

“I should like to be a Game-maker myself someday,” the Little Elf remarked absent-mindedly, eyes now fixed squarely on the giant glass ball of the Arena. “Or an architect, perhaps. But a Game-maker would be _amazing.”_

Just then, the dome of the Arena began to glow like an orb. Davahlia gave her sister a serious look and raised a stern finger to her lips. _“Ssh!”,_ she admonished, leaning forward eagerly in her seat, “The Games are about to start!” 

Across the dome, projected onto the outer glass, was a spectacular simulated fireworks display. Though merely a projection, the pixelated plumes of purple, pink and green were no less awe-inspiring than their noisier gunpowder counterparts. From their privileged vantage point in the front row, Davahlia and her sister had to lean right back in their seats and slouch slightly as if they were at the movies. It was breath-taking to be up so close; the projection was such that shimmering, rippling waves of sparkles appeared to rain down on the audience like falling stars. A shimmery rivulet settled across Little Elf’s arms and lap like a blanket. She grinned slyly as she cupped a handful and pretended to throw them in Davahlia’s face, giggling. 

As the fireworks display ended, the screen became ablaze with light. “Here it is!” Davahlia exclaimed, straightening up. “The moment we’ve been waiting for! Quick, adjust the telephoto on your contacts! Also, it’s getting dark out; don’t forget to set ’em to night cam!”

An advertisement flashed across the screen. 

Davahlia slumped wearily back down into her seat. “Great. _Another_ ad.”

The ad depicted a lioness creeping stealthily along the Masai Mara plains in pursuit of a lone, oblivious antelope. The eyes of the audience followed the lioness as it drew ever nearer to its prey. Then, all of a sudden, the second the lion got up and began to charge, the camera switched perspectives so the audience was now seeing through the lion’s eyes. The crowd watched a paw swipe within inches of the antelope’s hindquarters as if it was their own, saw each individual fleck of dirt as it sprayed up from the majestic beast’s hooves and into their faces. Saw its pupil dilate fearfully as the set of sabre-like teeth prepared to bite down hard on the frightened creature’s back... 

At this critical moment, the screen went dark, and there was simply a few words followed by a smooth, deep male voice-over: _“A powerful game needs powerful vision. Ultra-Vision. See the world through the eyes of the powerful.”_

Davahlia laughed. “I wonder how much Nike paid for that advertising space?”

“Ssh!” Little Elf snapped reprovingly, this time playing Big Sister. Oddly, it seemed more natural coming from her. “They’re about to begin the countdown.”  


Once the Games were underway, the two sisters nattered about the tributes; who they liked, who they didn’t, and who they thought would first wind up as pastrami.

“I do like the boy from Three,” Little Elf grinned, referring to the District her sister was chaperoning. “He’s very cute. But there’s just something so handsome about the seventeen-year-old from Twelve. He’s so…manly. _Rugged._ A little rough around the edges, but…I kind of like that, you know. In fact, were it not for my loyalty to you, Davey, I must say I’d prefer for _him_ to win.” 

“Sounds like _someone_ has a cru-ush,” Davahlia teased. “I saw you cut a photo of the Twelver boy out of the Sunday Times liftout and then disappear off into your bedroom. When you finally emerged you had a blue tongue. Been frenching posters again, Elf?”

Her sister scoffed. “Don’t be absurd! I don’t know if you’ve realised, Davey, but I’m not nine year old anymore.” But her cheeks were pinkening and she refused to look into Davahlia’s eyes as she spoke.

“Right. So why was your tongue blue then?”

“If you _must_ know, I’d been licking a blue lollipop.”

“Mmm hmm. Sure. That’s what they all say.” 

Little Elf’s eyes slowly sidled up to meet Davahlia’s. “Well,” she said haughtily, “at least I don’t make a point of bringing home bad-boys and waking the entire neighbourhood with my rambunctious love-making.” 

Davahlia burst out laughing. “ ‘Rambunctious love-making’! Oh, little sis, you’re too funny! Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Where do you come up with all the patently ridiculous nymphomaniac clichés you always scream in the heat of the moment? Cheesy romance literature? Vulgar pornographic movies? Honestly, Davey, you sound like a strangled cat. It’s enough to make one ill.”

Davahlia gave her an angry, wounded look. “Ouch! That’s a little harsh there, Elf.” 

“Well, maybe you could try keeping the volume down next time. We don’t all have boyfriends to have noisy, athletic sex with,” she murmured quietly.

Davahlia’s expression softened. “You’ll have a boyfriend someday, Elfie,” she told her gently. She reached across and brushed her sister’s bangs out of her eyes, regarding her tenderly. “Girl as pretty as you should have boys beating down her door in no time.” 

Her sister gave her a doubtful look and pointed a finger at her eyes. “Want these?”

“Why?”

“Because if you sincerely believe that, you obviously need something to enhance your vision.” 

Davahlia laughed. “My vision’s fine, thanks! Anyway, I have my own pair.” Her expression turned tender again. “Seriously though, Elf, you need to stop being so hard on yourself. You’d be real pretty if you just stopped being so grim all the time. Look, here’s something they taught us in escort school: “Hair back! Chin up! Smile on! Aaaand, you’re good to go.” Davahlia flipped her hair, tilted her chin and flashed her teeth to demonstrate. “Okay, now you try.”

Her sister’s forced smile was so pained and insincere it looked more like a grimace. Davahlia’s own smile was a bit terser as she replied, “Well, um, never mind. You’ll improve; I know you will! We’ll work on it later.” 

All of a sudden, Davahlia’s handbag began to buzz. She frowned as she removed her cell from its front pouch. A small hologram projected a text message from the screen. Davahlia’s brow furrowed in consternation as her eyes scanned the words. When she’d finished reading, she exhaled wearily as she slipped her phone back into the pouch and stood up. 

Little Elf’s head twisted sharply. “Where are you off to?”

Davahlia gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry kiddo, escort duty calls. They need me down in the Game Room.”

“But I thought you said they gave you most of the evening off for my birthday.”

“Elfie, sweetie, it’s Day One. I said I’d be able to take _some_ of the night off, but you can’t expect me to be welded to your side the whole evening. I have a job to do.”

“Can’t you stay here just a little longer? Say, five or ten minutes, perhaps?”

Davahlia shook her head firmly. “Sorry. I have to go.” She leaned down and planted an affectionate kiss on Little Elf’s head. “But I’ll be back soon, ’kay? Promise.”

Her sister regarded her balefully. “Okay then.”

After Davahlia left, Little Elf sat and stewed irritably in her juices. She felt angry and jealous and lonely and wistful. Angry due to her sister’s condescension; why was her crush on that boy in Twelve any more of a joke than Davey’s stupid moony-eyed infatuation with her boyfriend? Because she was younger and they hadn’t done the nasty? Adults and their “puppy-love” nonsense—it was so patronising! Jealous because, well, grown-ups who’d bumped uglies did appear to have something on children who didn’t—or assumed they did, with such blithe arrogance that it amounted to the same thing. But even as Elf firmly told herself that her sister was just another smug and clueless adult, the claw of envy kept prodding at her certainty; truth be told she’d love to be able to attract the same kind of attention Davahlia got from men simply by existing. And she was lonely and wistful because of her predicament: she needed to be comforted, but what to do when the only person around to comfort you is the same one who reminds you of your inadequacies? Little Elf stared sadly down at her shoes. _I am all by myself on my birthday; the only person who came to celebrate with me is my sister. And now, even **she’s** not here. I wish I had some friends._  


“Hey, are you gonna use those? I can tell they’re switched off ’cuz your irises ain’t glowing. If not, _I_ sure as Hades wouldn’t mind a squiz!”

Her head jerked up. Sitting in the seat beside her sister’s vacant one, an African-Panemian girl about her age was grinning at her eagerly. 

Little Elf blinked and shook her head as if to clear away the last remnants of mental fog from her self-pitying reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your Ultra-Visions,” the girl replied, pointing a finger at her own eyes. “May I borrow them?”

“Oh. Certainly.” Elf reached under her seat for the special hygiene spray that would make the lenses safe for another person’s use. When she held them out in her palm, the other girl snatched them from her a little too enthusiastically. Elf was mildly startled—didn’t this girl have any manners? But then, she supposed, they were astoundingly expensive. At six grand for the cheap-end range, only very wealthy Capitol citizens—or ones who worked at the Games, like her sister—were willing to shell out for a pair. 

“These are fucking _rad!”_ the girl enthused, pressing the buttons on the remote so violently that Elf half-expected her fingers to emerge through its underside. “I wanna see everything. Pink and yellow viscera shimmering in ruptured stomachs. Purple entrails dangling like exposed electrical cords. But ugh, it’s so boring in the Arena right now. Let’s get some action down there already! C’mon Game-makers, _let’s do this shit!”_

Little Elf blanched. She’d always been a touch squeamish. All this talk about ruptured guts and exposed entrails was starting to make her ill. 

The lack of colour in her face didn’t go unnoticed. All of a sudden, she felt something cool press against her cheek. Her eyes swivelled down. It was a water bottle. 

“Are you okay?” came a concerned voice from behind her. Elf slowly turned around in her seat. In the seat directly behind hers sat a pretty straw-haired blonde girl, whose large cornflower eyes were wide with worry. “You look like you’re on the verge of passing out! Please, have a sip of my drink.”

Elf uncapped the bottle and tentatively sipped. But the water sliding down her throat was so refreshing that she couldn’t resist tossing her head back and going in for a second, greedier swig. A couple of trickles ran down her chin, and she wiped them off with the back of her hand.

“Thank you,” she muttered gratefully as she returned the drink to its owner. “I know it’s not very ‘cool’ of me to admit this, but the thought of watching really gory deaths so close up makes me feel, well…a bit sickish.”

“Wimp,” the African-Panemian girl smirked, still staring straight ahead of her as her fingers excitedly pounded the remote.

“Don’t listen to her,” the blonde girl told her kindly. “The first time I saw the Games live, I was much more of a wimp than you. I actually threw up all over the poor gentleman sitting in front of me!” She laughed and shook her head. “It was so mortifying! Serves my Dad and brother right for dragging me here though, I guess. Each subsequent year I’ve mostly just come to check out the couture. The Opening Ceremony boasts the most stunning sartorial creations I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’d love to do that someday: go into Fashion Design. I’m Portia, by the way,” she added in a friendly voice. She smiled and tilted her head as she gave Elf a curious look. “Have I seen you around before? You kind of look like someone who goes to my school. Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?”

“E-Effie,” the elfin girl stuttered shyly. Goodness, that blonde girl sure could talk! It was weird, suddenly finding yourself in conversation with someone who was so intensely social. Effie wasn’t really used to all the attention. 

“Enobaria,” came a gruff voice to Effie’s left. Both Effie and Portia regarded her with a frown. The girl’s head gave a sharp twist and she stared at them both plaintively. _“What?”_ she demanded, the word laced with a sardonic undercurrent. “Thought we were having a nice howdy-doo.” She muttered an expletive under her breath and resumed her macabre bird-watching. 

“I’ll need those back shortly, you know,” Effie informed her tartly, although she wasn’t really feeling stern; it was more a performance for Portia’s benefit. “I’d like to get a better look at the handsome tribute I fancy.” 

“Yeah-cool,” came the dismissive reply. 

Portia’s eyes lit up. “So there’s a District gent you’re sweet on? Ooh, how exciting! Which one?” 

“Uhhm...” Effie felt her cheeks begin to pinken. ‘Girl Talk’ was unchartered territory for her, and she didn’t quite know how to navigate the terrain. If she told Portia who she liked and Portia disapproved, would she agree that perhaps the boy she fancied wasn’t as cute as she initially thought? And moreover: would Effie actually come to believe this lie herself? Was it even lying if you weren’t sure you trusted your own judgement in the first place? Were anybody’s desires really ever kindled in isolation, or did they only ever take shape after being cooked in the communal kiln? For the first time, Effie was suddenly aware of how much seemingly inflexible personal preferences could revert to putty in the hands of public opinion. 

“Well, his, uh, I think his name starts with H,” Effie said, trying to sound casual. “Henry or Harry or something like that.” 

Portia nodded eagerly. “I know exactly which one you’re talking about! He is a fine one, isn’t he? And those muscles!” She leaned forward and nudged the air with her elbow, winking. “We share a taste in men, you and I: rugged, macho Tarzan types.” She smiled approvingly and then turned her attention to the enormous fuscia-pink purse sitting on the ground beside her seat, which she leaned down and proceeded to ferret through with one hand, frowning. 

Effie wasn’t quite sure she knew what to do with this information, or even how to parse it properly. So the boys she liked were apparently ‘macho’; was this a good thing? It must’ve been, given Portia’s warm response. It didn’t occur to her to question the other girl’s judgement; Portia looked to be at least two or three years her senior, and was clearly wiser to the ways of the world than the small elfin girl believed herself to be. Effie wanted to impress Portia, wanted to feel worthy of her companionship. If only she could affect the same effortless Capitol airs and graces as her sister. 

“Ah-ha! I found them! Thought you could get away, you sneaky little suckers.” Portia triumphantly produced her own pair of UVs from her purse. She grinned at Effie. “I’m not too keen on the killing, as I’ve said. It’s much more entertaining at a distance. But there are other reasons to watch the Games. Like ol’ cantaloupe-arms from Twelve, for instance. Let’s see if we can find him, shall we?” She took turns holding each eye open with one hand while the finger of the other inserted the lenses. “I’ll take a quick look-see and then let you know when I’ve found him.”

Effie’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird. The nascent excitement building in her chest was as much in anticipation of seeing her hunk in extreme close-up as it was in having finally made something that could be considered a friendship; Portia was gossiping with her, making friendly small-talk and sharing in her excitement—all the mundane things a friend would do. It was unlikely the two would ever see each other again after the evening was over—even if they did attend the same school, Portia was probably in an entirely different league than Effie socially—but the elfin girl resolved to feel grateful for their transient encounter. After all, who knew when a girl as cool and friendly as Portia would ever take an interest in her again? The odds weren’t in her favour. 

_“Oh!”_ Quite unexpectedly, Portia’s girlish eyes widened in alarm, her trembling fingers frantically working the remote. She clapped a slender hand against her mouth in horror and leaned quickly back in her seat, heart racing. 

“What’s wrong?” Effie asked worriedly as she straightened up, suddenly alert. “Portia? What’s the matter? What did you see?”

“Oh. Nothing too alarming.” She exhaled and laughed faintly. “Just watched someone get an arrow in the chest, that’s all. Good thing I was zoomed out a bit, thank Zeus.” She gave another half-hearted chuckle and shook her head. 

As the cannon blast signalled the first candle had been snuffed out, the two girls noticed Enobaria looking at them and snickering.

Effie straightened up officiously in her seat. “Oh, what?” she snapped at the African-Panemian girl, feeling oddly defensive on Portia’s behalf. “What’s so amusing, hmm? Care to share it with us?”  
Enobaria snickered. “Nothing. It’s just you two are such _wimps!_ If this is how you are _now,_ I’d hate to see what you’re gonna be like later when the real disembowelling starts.” The smirk widened. “Maybe I should head off and fetch you ladies some smelling salts? Shit, I leaked more blood on my last period than the pissant trickle in that D4 dude’s chest cavity!” she laughed incredulously and shook her head. “Screw sponsor-donated _bandages,_ just pitch these lame-os a few tampons! Honestly, I can’t believe a small graze from that arrowhead was enough to kill the guy.”

“Yes, well,” Effie replied tersely, “an arrow to the heart will do that.” She glanced conspiratorially at Portia, silently urging her for back-up. But Portia didn’t appear to be listening. Instead, she looked lost in her own little world. 

“Do you ever wonder,” Portia began thoughtfully, “why they never put any guns in the cornucopia? I mean, wouldn’t it be such a nicer, more humane way to die? A single bullet to the head or chest and that’s it: a quick, relatively painless sleep.”

Effie considered this. The thought had never crossed her mind, but now that Portia mentioned it, it did seem like a good idea; certainly, it would eliminate much of the needless suffering and sick-making butchery. 

But the girls’ ponderous silence was cut short by Enobaria’s harsh bark of a laugh. _“Ha!_ Boy, you two really _are_ stupid.” She eyed them in a mocking, superior way that really set Effie’s teeth on edge. 

Effie rolled her eyes. “Alright then, bloodlust,” she muttered irritably, “mind telling us _why,_ pray tell?” 

Enobaria responded by mirroring Effie’s eye-rolling exasperation. “Well, for a start, they’re called the Hunger _Games,_ not the Hunger Flash-In-The-Pan. Any guns would ensure the Games were over by Day One. If everyone gets their hands on a gun—particularly the kind of guns that are capable of firing multiple rounds sans reload—and it’s all over after a single shoot-off at the OK-corral. Over like _that.”_ She snapped her fingers together. 

Effie and Portia continued to listen, Effie agitated and impatient, Portia detached and intrigued.  
“Anyways, you two may not know this, but in previous years they _did_ experiment with putting a single handgun and round of bullets in the cornucopia.” Her eyes flashed. “Guess what happened then?” 

Effie drew a deep breath. “Well, I suppose someone got a hold of it and started killing everyone else too quickly. An unfair advantage, of sorts.” 

“Bzzt! Wrong! They didn’t start killing everyone _else.”_ Enobaria’s eyes held a wicked gleam as she opened her mouth wide and angled her index and middle fingers against its roof, the corners of her mouth lifting into an evil grin as she slowly crooked her thumb. 

Effie and Portia both looked aghast. “They...they suicided?” Effie asked incredulously.

Enobaria laughed. “What, you expect _bravery_ from the cowardly sacks of shit in Districts Three through Twelve? Ha! That’s so naive. Don’t forget, these are the ones who actually try to run away when their names get called out at the Reaping! ’Course they bump ’emsleves off first chance they get, the gutless losers.” 

“That’s horrible,” Portia said quietly. 

“I know! You think a few of ’em would actually stand up and fight for their lives like a warrior is supposed to. Nope. It’s all willing human sacrifice with that crowd. Wusses.” Enobaria shook her head in disgust. “You’d never catch my relatives back in Two behaving like that. Or most of ’em, anyways.” 

This revelation surprised both the elfin girl and her blonde companion. Effie said, “You’re from _District Two?”_

Enobaria shrugged. “Not me, but my folks, yeah, they’re from Two. Originally. But they had certain... _talents_ the Capitol thought could be useful.” A wry smile. “So here I am.”

Effie and Portia eyed her dubiously. Whenever the Capitol invited a District-dweller to become one of their own and the person claimed it was due to their ‘special talents’, this was almost always a euphemism that meant the Capitol had enlisted them as a spy to rat out any dissidents or subversive activities in their own District. These people were frequently intriguing to those outside their line of work. But if spy-work carried an aura of the mysterious, it was also highly susceptible to its Shadow Side—distrust. In fact, Capitol citizens who went undercover as district-dwellers were so prone to becoming turncoats that the result was that both parties were constantly suspicious of them. 

“So you’re rooting for Two then, I take it?” Portia enquired cautiously. 

Enobaria shook her head firmly. “Nuh-uh, fuck no! Not that side of the family, I’m not! One of my cousins is down there, see. They claimed to be working for the Capitol like my folks, but they were actually in cahoots with rebels in Two all along.” She glared at the glass dome and shook her fist. “Fucking two-faced assholes.”

Portia looked sympathetic. “It must be a difficult position to be in,” she ventured carefully, “having to choose between your country and your family that way.”

Enobaria’s eyes narrowed. “Look, I got no affinity with anyone from Two. ’Specially not a traitor like my cousin. My folks always told me there was no greater honour than to fight for your country in the Games. They may be from Two originally, and sure, we’ll back D2 over any of the other suckers, but their allegiance is to the Capitol and so’s mine. The Capitol has been good to us. Let’s face it, the only reason the people in the Districts are so poor is ’cuz they lack the drive to better themselves. They say the odds aren’t in their favour? _I_ say that’s bullshit. It’s just a victim’s way of rationalising his failures, his inability to man the fuck up and actually _make_ something of himself. Shit, those ingrates should be _thanking_ the Capitol for giving their pathetic lives meaning and purpose—two things they wouldn’t have if they were left to rot in the Districts.” A righteous mist clouded her eyes; the lights were on but Reason wasn’t home. 

“Think about it. Talented, exceptional District folk get selected to work in the Capitol all the fucking time! If my folks can do it, why can’t they? United Districts of Panem—land of the free, baby! People are free here to realise their potential or not, but it just so happens some of the ones who don’t are occasionally given a rare—and frankly, _undeserved_ opportunity: the opportunity to compete in the Hunger Games, to bring glory to their family and their District. Do these moochers react with gratitude? Nope. They flee. They protest. They raise their middle fingers at a system that’s trying its damndest to fulfil all their greatest dreams. These seditious traitors don’t deserve these Games! They oughta be pre-emptively exterminated like the traitorous termites they are.” 

There was a stretch of silence as Effie and Portia mulled this over.

Finally, Portia said diplomatically, “There _are_ an astounding number ungrateful people out in the Districts, aren’t there? What with all the rioting recently it’s no wonder the Capitol has cut off their food stamps and welfare. Some of the violence that’s erupting in 10 through 12 lately has been—well, it’s been quite shocking.” 

“Yeah, but what can ya do? They’re assholes,” Enobaria muttered noncommittally, as if she’d lost interest in the subject. There was a glint of recollection in her eyes and she grinned, “So, you guys wanna hear the rest of my gun story or not?” Portia looked vaguely stricken and tried to politely demur, but Enobaria cut her off. 

“So the first chick’s just blown her brains to Kingdom Come right, and now every. Fucking. _Person_ is now looking for that damn handgun so’s they can follow suit. I mean, the Careers each had like fucking _scythes_ and _knuckle-dusters_ and crap. _Fuck_ that shit!! Now don’t get me wrong, if that was me I’d find my own awesome weapon and gut assholes left, right and centre, but you can’t expect the dweebs in District Chicken-Shit—which is every District from 3 through 12—to have my kind of gumption. So anyways, the little ass-fuckers are scuttling ’round like roaches trying to off ’emselves, and meanwhile the Game-makers are shitting _cinderblocks_ ’cuz ring-side spectators and the people at home are witnessing _children_ trying to commit _suicide_ right before their very eyes, broadcast live around the nation. So, okay, you know the dudes who are responsible for helicopter-lifting dead kids out of the Arena and junk? Well, now those guys are scurrying ’round the Arena trying to remove the gun before the tributes get to it. Now _ordinarily_ this would be a piece of cake, but there’d been a blackout earlier in the Game-Room. So, with all the telescreens malfunctioning and unable to show people in the control room the particular part of the Arena where the gun was—and this was a _huge_ part of the Arena, we’re talking like the size of a fucking _football field_ here—there was no way for the Game-makers to let the dudes on the field know where the gun was. To top it all off, the telescreens would like periodically flash on and off at various places in the Arena, so there was no way of knowing if they’d flash on at the exact moment and location when a tribute was about to pull the trigger and shuck off their mortal coil. The ordeal posed a gi-fucking- _normous_ security risk. ’Cuz you can imagine what rioting in the Districts would be like if people watched their kiddies’ televised suicides, right?” She shook her head and grinned. “Fucking. _Nightmare.”_  


A long, uncomfortable silence followed.

“Well, that was a cheerful story, Enobaria,” Effie finally said, her voice terse. “You should write children’s books.” 

“It just so happens to be true. But don’t worry—it’s got a very happy ending!” 

“I cannot wait to hear it.” 

“So one of the tributes actually discovers the gun, right—”

“And he kills himself.”

“No, _geeze,_ will ya let me finish already? Sheesh! So then, _she_ finds the gun, and wouldn’t ya know it, at that exact moment another tribute finds _her.”_

Portia’s eyebrows formed an anxious pyramid. “Oh, no.” 

“Yup! Buries an axe in her skull, then takes the gun and shoots himself. No idea why he didn’t just let her kill herself—hell, wasn’t like there was only one bullet left in the gun or nothin'. I’m guessing she must’ve pissed him off somewhere along the line. Boy, it was incredibly lucky the cameras didn’t capture any of that! Anyway, after that the helicopter dudes found them and took the gun away, and the broadcast returned to normal. So everything worked out okay in the end.” 

Effie stared at her, faintly incredulous. “I beg your pardon? How?” 

“How what?” 

“How did everything ‘work out okay in the end’?” 

Enobaria gave her a withering look. “’Cuz the folks at home never saw it, _duh!_ A major security crisis was averted.” Seemingly bored with her new companions, Enobaria turned her attention back to the Games. While one hand fondled the remote to augment her predator’s vision, the other alternated between greedily swiping handfuls of popcorn into her mouth and raising a cement mixer-sized raspberry cola cup to her mouth. Portia and Effie watched her as she voraciously crunched and slurped, with a blend of fascination and disgust. Some of the cola spilled down her chin. It painted her lips red and glistened like blood as she clapped and cheered for the deaths of her District kin, at home among the powerful.


End file.
